


Childish Wonder

by IamHobbes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 09:36:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamHobbes/pseuds/IamHobbes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic about the time when someone used to cradle them and kiss them when they cried. Child!Amis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childish Wonder

**Author's Note:**

> First work being posted here, weehee, I hope you enjoy. Also, if you have anything to point out that I might have, like, done wrong, please do so! Critique makes the writing grow. I write more of these kids if I feel up to it.

Paris, February 1818

Amidst the frost and sleet that swaddled the streets in the general weariness of early February winter, little flickers of sunlight danced in and out of existence in the snow, taunting the shivering backs of the people who thought to walk the streets on that day. To the children, it must have seemed that the entirety of the world was clothed with this white coat. To their mothers, hell.

The whiteness was a bother, hiding much of everyone and everything; clashing colors with a brown overcoat that hung on the scrawny frame of a boy, no more than ten, who pressed his mittened hands to his freckled cheeks. What with the snow and the time of day, it was evident that he shouldn’t have been out - though, one wouldn’t notice the blue schoolboy uniform carefully hidden underneath or the round face unless they tore his coat off and hacked the soft reddening blonde hair that fell gently on his face. He smiled as he walked, despite the cold, blinking in wonder. The snow fell unhurriedly, taking time to catch his eye. By the time he and his friend reached the street opposite Sorbonne, he was practically gasping with delight. At his right, his companion was a lesser fan of the weather, grunting in exasperation as he tore off his glasses to clean for the umpteenth time.

“Jean, really-“

A sigh. “Combeferre, please don’t call me Jean.”

“You aren’t frozen yet, are you, _Jehan?”_

Prouvaire shrugged, giggling. Combeferre was two and ten years of age, wore glasses, had brown hair that brushed his eyes, a voice that cracked occasionally, was at least three inches taller than Jehan, and was a brother to five siblings. He drew much from the other five, learning stitching from a sister, anatomy and English from the eldest, justice from one, oppression from the other. He learned of Danton and Robespierre in secret, learned of flora and fauna in the open, the terminology and the insects. Cocoons fascinated him, goslings disgusted him. From all he was learning, and all the chaotic influence and conflicting opinions that often lead to affectionate squabbles, he taught himself patience.

Presently, his brow was furrowed at Prouvaire who found it increasingly funny that his friend could detest snow.

Another sigh. “ _What?_ ”

A snicker. “Oh, nothing.”

Both were staying at the Collège d’Harcourt, officially lycée Saint-Louis. Prouvaire was on his first year while Combeferre was on his second.

_“Jehan.”_

Combeferre rolled his eyes at the younger boy, digging his hands deep into his pockets to keep them from trembling. The latter faltered in his chuckles, feeling a touch of guilt. He crept closer to the prior, hooking himself onto Combeferre’s arm, burying his face in it in apology. He curled around it like a kitten snuggling into place. Combeferre struggled not to laugh, the frown erasing itself immediately from his face, leaning his head on the top of Jehan’s, his lip curling. He found he wasn’t even annoyed. Well, not at him. Never at him.

Their families were friends, having been neighbors in Saint-Étienne. The Combeferres with their multiple children, all educated, learned and all sprawled out in the grass, singing songs and laughing and laughing and dancing around when the Prouvaires come with their only son, after years of prayer and hope, letting him run free with the other children who taught him to braid their hair and pick the sweetest flowers, play the flute by notes, write sonnets, appreciate Isaiah and Cornielle, sing about love, love women and men, despise imbalance but embrace imperfection, and to live, live, live.

“Sorry,” Jehan murmured into the sleeve of Combeferre’s coat.

“Don’t apologize, let’s just get somewhere warm,” the other answered, pulling Jehan along winter’s freezing embrace.

Technically, the two of them should not have been out. But the day was lax and so were the boys above them that commanded them, merely on the receiving end of the bargain with their headmaster. It was often that year that Combeferre found Jehan with a bloody nose or some sort of pain inflicted on his small body, patching him up with what he could work with because Jehan did not dare let the news reach any of the professors or, god forbid, the headmaster. The older boys were cruel and clever with their blows, sneering menacingly at the first years, hoping to frighten them into submission. Jehan had to punch them back and that did not end particularly well. Combeferre hated it. With his thin wrists and skinny frame, he hated it with all his might, washing all Jehan’s injuries as he did. He had stolen supplies from the infirmary at some point, having nothing to bandage Prouvaire’s gashes with - though his bloodstained uniform would have made the situation clear enough. It was a sad, unhealthy game they were forced to play but it was the least Combeferre could have done for his friend. As a result, they ran off the school grounds as soon as the snow could cover their existence by itself.

“Don’t you like the snow?” Jehan asked.

“Not really.”

“Why not?” Jehan exclaimed, an incredulous expression bequeathing itself to his little face. “It’s beautiful! Breathtaking! Wonderful-”

“It’s frozen water, Jehan.”

“It’s the tears of angels who don’t like your attitude.”

Combeferre made an exasperated noise, shaking the flakes of snow off his head. “ _Of course it is.”_

Jehan sagged, biting his lip.

“You’re still angry about Professeur Martin, aren’t you?” Jehan said. Combeferre replied with a curt nod, kicking the same whiteness on Jehan’s nose off his shoe.

“I’m not angry at him… I couldn’t do it.”

“He shouldn’t have shouted,” Jehan declared firmly, brow furrowing. “It wasn’t right.”

“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t do it so he shouted at me, regardless of right and wrong.”

“Yes but-“

“I didn’t pin the moth down. I watched it for too long, let it go near the fire and burn and die.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jehan muttered, taking Combeferre’s hand.

“Yes, it is. I let it go too far on its own, let it touch the light and it couldn’t handle it. The flame was too much and its wings got charred and it caught fire and it died even when Professeur specifically told me not to let it happen,” Combeferre breathed, blinking unshed tears. “It seemed so cruel not to, though.”

“It would have been.”

“It would have died anyway. If I had pinned it or if it had frozen to death.”

“Well, he got what he wanted, Combeferre.”

“Professeur Martin marked me down,” Combeferre continued, “He made me look outside. He made me showed me a pamphlet-“

“He _what_ -“

“A torn up one. I could hardly read it. Then, he talked about people- Robespierre, revolutionaries- he said if I was as foolish as the moth to touch something that would obviously kill me, he would burn me himself first. He said if that didn’t kill me, the light would. That disobeying was horrible. And I was stupid.”

“You’re not!” Jehan roared, fiercely. Combeferre tried for a smile, hanging his head.

They stared at snow in slience, Combeferre catching his breath, Jehan losing his own.

“Well… It’s still not fair to pin someone down, you know,” Jehan whispered.

“I know, Jehan. It’s awful.”

“Even if it’s because he cares.”

“Care can be just as good a cage as not doing so.”

Jehan reached for his friends hand.

“You’re too good to be pinned down, Combeferre. You’re the best person I know.”

_You’re going to burn like those men, Combeferre. People out there, who are higher than you, have got more power than you, they’ll see it done. And won’t even bat an eyelid._

Combeferre smiled, tightened his grip and whispered thanks.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic goes out to tumblr user bymeansofeducation :D Special thanks to tumblr users Pilferapples and Ferain1832 for the comments.


End file.
